The Domestic
by Driffta
Summary: John and Sherlock are just starting to settle down into a routine, learning what it is like to be together without shagging every second possible. Everything seems to be going well until the post comes and they have a row. Another Calabash & Driffta fic.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note**: Another slashy Johnlock fanfic from yours truly as Sherlock and the amazing Where's My Calabash as John.

So, this is a request from one of our very first and most loyal followers Wings Dipped in Silver. So, anyway, we hope that this is okay! We deviated a bit so that we could tie it into a different story we were planning on writing. And by the next chapter or so we should have the delicious shagging you requested, m'dear. We hope that you like it!

**Warnings**: Angry fighting, language, angst, blah blah blah. It's rated M for the chapters to come,in which there is some fun make up sex to be had.

**Summary**: John and Sherlock are just starting to settle down into a routine, learning what it is like to be together without shagging every second possible. Everything seems to be going well until the post comes and they have a row. For the first time in their budding relationship the two men have an honest to god domestic. Will this end life as we know it on Baker Street? Can they reconcile?

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><p>Thursday was John's least favorite day of the week. He imagined that it shouldn't be; the next day was Friday, the last day of his work week, and then the weekend came, and it was glorious. Sherlock worked on weekends... of course he did. Crime did not recognize John's schedule. But it mattered not, because John was allowed to tag along behind, running from crime scene to crime scene, pretending not to stare at the detective's arse beneath his long, flapping coat, pretending not to gaze deeply into his silver eyes as Sherlock asked him questions about the corpses, pretending they had not just been shagging like mad the night before as Lestrade greeted them behind the police tape. John dearly loved the weekends. But he bloody hated Thursday. He did not realize why until he was seated comfortably on the sofa that evening, flipping through channels on the telly, sighing. Sherlock was puttering about in the kitchen, working on an experiment, cursing softly under his breath, and John froze in his channel surfing. It struck him, all in a matter of seconds. He hated Thursday because Friday... was hell. Sherlock was usually feeling pressed for time by the end of the week... pressed to finish his case, to wrap it up. His patients were cranky, his nurses were eager to leave, his lover was almost completely nonverbal all day... and John hated Thursday. He heaved a huge sigh. In the kitchen, Sherlock paused in his work, glancing up at him, and John managed a small smile. "Working on anything important?" he asked with vague disinterest.<p>

Sherlock peered at John and frowned. Something was off, Sherlock could tell. 'Not particularly.' He said slowly, getting up from his stool and stretching. 'Just completely discrediting an old... friend's paper on particle displacement.' Sherlock ambled over to where John was slumped on the sofa and nudged him with a toe, making him move over slightly so Sherlock could flop down next to him. After John had resettled at the end of the sofa, Sherlock sprawled out on it, resting his feet on John's lap and wiggling his toes against the wool clad stomach. To Sherlock's pleasure he saw John smile a little in reaction to the movement. The doctor was a little ticklish in that spot and Sherlock only ever exploited that weakness when he knew John was upset. It was one of the only ways Sherlock knew to let John know that he was worried about him. That he wanted to help John cheer up. Sherlock shifted about on the cushions, making a warm little niche in between the sofa and pillows before giving John his undivided attention.

John gazed down at the wriggling toes on his lap, and he felt his cheeks heat. This was still a bit new for them. They'd been shagging a while now; sex was easy and natural to them. It was the most wonderful thing John could ever have imagined, to crawl into bed with this man at the end of the day and let him take him slowly apart, bit by bit, sometimes soft and gentle, but more often than not, frantic and violent. Sex was easy. THIS... was harder. The gentility of every day life was changing subtly, developing into a sweet, low burning devotion that John was unused to. His previous relationships had not had the fire that was kindled so easily between him and Sherlock. The balance between fire and every day life was a bit difficult. They were still learning to walk the line. He tentatively raised his hand, placing it gently on Sherlock's foot, his thumb rubbing little circles onto the sharp veins that stood out against milky white skin. He grinned as Sherlock dug his toes into his jumper, seeking his ticklish spot, and John slapped at his heel playfully. He glanced up. Sherlock was watching him intently. John flushed again, looking down at his lap, at the foot. He gestured to the television, clearing his throat. "Anything you want to see?" He smirked, settling on a talk show. "Nothing on about particle displacement, but..." He hoped Sherlock would stay. It felt good to have him curled up on the sofa. He was warm. Inviting. Arousing.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the suggestion and shook his head, instead opting for a book that he was currently in the middle of reading. The detective sat up and grabbed the soft cover novel and, after a few moments contemplation, leaned forward awkwardly and placed a light, somewhat hesitant kiss on John's cheek. Without looking at John, he hurriedly flopped back down and opened his book. Sherlock wasn't used to this sort of thing. Not at all. But... he wanted very much to give it a try.

They sat in comfortable silence for an hour, Sherlock immersed in his novel, John beginning to nod off as he absentmindedly caressed his lovers feet, the blue glow from the telly lulling him to sleep. He was startled awake by a swift rap at the door.

Mrs Hudson knocked once before popping her head around the door and giving the two men a pleasant smile. 'Hello dears.' She said cheerfully. 'I hope I'm not disturbing you, I just brought you the post. There's quite a lot of it.' She looked down at Sherlock with a half exasperated half amused smile on her face. 'Sherlock,' she said, handing the mail to John, 'you really need to stop setting fire to my bins. This time I'll have to buy completely new ones.'

Sherlock glanced up at her in acknowledgement before returning to his book.

Mrs Hudson sighed. 'Well, unless there's anything else, I'll leave you two alone.' She gave John an encouraging smile, rubbed her hands on her dress before nodding and exiting their flat.

Sherlock looked at John, an eyebrow raised. 'Anything interesting?'

John shook his head, trying not to laugh as he sifted through the stack. Mrs. Hudson was right. There was a lot of post this time. He glanced at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. "You have been setting fire to the bins again?" he asked with a chuckle, handing him a heavy, ornate envelope which John suspected strongly contained a cheque that would make his eyes boggle. Sherlock had just wrapped up a case for a royal family on the continent, and as always, John watched as his lover glanced at it, looking bored, and tossed it aside. John shrugged. "She's going to raise the rent if you keep this up, you know."

'This time it was an accident.' Sherlock pouted, picking up his book again and reading a few lines before looking over the top at John. 'It was either the bins or my coat.' Clearly Sherlock would never do anything to endanger his favourite piece of clothing. Sherlock adored his coat. It was dramatic and practical and gave him an even greater look of importance. Plus, he looked good in it. Even John had admitted to that much.

"Accident or no..." John's voice trailed off, and Sherlock looked up at him again. He was sitting quite still, holding a freshly opened card, garishly adorned with bright pink flowers and what appeared to be... yellow ducks. John's eyes slid over to Sherlock in the semi-darkness, and he grinned broadly. "Oh, Sherlock," he said, and there was a mischievous lilt to his voice. "I'm so sorry, I opened this by accident. It's for you." John handed it to him with dancing eyes. He leaned back on the sofa, still rubbing Sherlock's foot, a wide smile on his face.

Sherlock eyed the card dubiously. _What the hell...?_ he snorted and tossed the card on the coffee table. 'That is one event I will not be attending... whatever it is.' He picked up his book once more and shook his head. 'What IS a baby shower, anyway?' With a shake of his head he shifted about, trying to get comfortable again. 'Why would I ever go to a baby shower for Clara?'

John stared at him for thirty seconds before Sherlock noticed. He blinked at the tall man as he hesitated, frowning at John, taking in the set of his jaw, the narrowing of his eyes. John pursed his lips a moment. "Have you forgotten, Sherlock? Really?" He was hurt. He would never forget. He could never forget. It was the most thrilling conversation he had ever had in his entire life. John picked up his mobile from the table, and waved it, flashing the back inscription at him. "Clara."

'Forgotten what? That Clara's your sister's partner? No. I haven't. I don't see why would she invite me to something like that. She doesn't know me. And for that matter, what reason would I have for going? It's not like it's important. There's no dead body. There's no investigation.' he stated, looking at John with some surprise. 'Why should I go?'

John clenched his teeth. He peered at Sherlock with a familiar feeling of irritation and disappointment flaring in his gut. Damned Sherlock. Couldn't he be human for once? "She isn't my sister's partner, she's my sister's wife," he grated out, tossing the mobile on the table again. His hand rested on the arm of the sofa... not on Sherlock's foot. "They're back together, and you know what? This was one of the biggest reasons they split up, Sherlock. They are finally going to have a baby. And Harry is inviting you to the baby shower. I should THINK you could find time in your busy schedule in between solving international crimes and destroying the professional reputations of your colleagues to attend a _family_ event. _My_ family. Of which you are a part now. That's why she invited you. Idiot."

Sherlock just stared at John. He didn't understand why his lover was getting upset. He had no feelings of love or even attachment to either Harry or Clara. They were John's family. 'I'm not going to it. Why should I? I don't know them very well. I never go to family functions, especially not ones where I am not technically part of the family. I feel no responsibility toward either of them. I don't see why I should go.' Sherlock picked up his book yet again, assuming the matter was over and done with. Really, why should he go? He didn't even think Harry liked him. The first and last time they'd met she'd called him a "fucking git".

"Then go for me." John waited until his bright eyes slid over to him once more, and he leaned forward, capturing his full attention. His voice was hard as steel, soft as velvet. "You have no responsibility toward them, Sherlock. You have one to me. Harry is my sister. Clara is as good as. They sent this invitation to YOU, not to me. Because you're MY partner, and Harry is making an effort to include you. Go for me, Sherlock." He waited, his throat tight. John did not know why this was suddenly so important... but it was. It was damned important. He wanted Sherlock to agree, to do something unselfish, to do something to show his love for John. Something that would possibly be uncomfortable. A sacrifice.

Sherlock frowned at John and suddenly stood up. He did not understand why this was so damn important to John. 'I am not going. I don't understand why family is so important to you. You only share the same genetics. It's not logical. I don't want to go. I'm not going.' He shook his head in confusion. John made no sense. Family. What was so important about that? There was no written code that they had to be close. Family was there to be used when needed and left alone at all other times.

John was on his feet in a heartbeat, his face pink, his fists clenched. Sherlock... was joking. He had to be bloody joking. But John knew better. Sherlock didn't joke, not about this sort of thing. He followed him as Sherlock stalked to the kitchen to continue his experiment, John hot on his heels. "You fucking wanker!" John hissed, swiveling to the opposite end of the table so that Sherlock could not escape his fury. His lover ignored him. "You won't go to a fucking party for my sister? One that _she_ invited you to? What, do you have plans to pretend to kill yourself that day?" John couldn't help the jab. He was furious.

Sherlock flinched at John's words. 'Yes, alright, maybe I do. Maybe I do. Because that faked death saved _your_ life. And that seems a hell of a lot more important that some stupid. little. party. I am not going. I refuse. I have neither the time nor the patience to deal with people I don't care about. And it begs the question why you care about them. I'll never understand those little "feelings". It seems like all Harry does is cause problems for you, and Clara, well, Clara comes crying to you because she knows you fancied her at one point in time. Why the hell would you want me to go? It's BORING. I don't like being bored.' Sherlock glared at John and then focused on his experiment. He tried to calm himself down, the blood had rushed to his head and there was an odd ringing noise in his ears. He did not know why John was so angry, but damn it all if he wasn't getting angry right back.

"I. Didn't. Fancy. Her," John growled out, slamming his hands on the table, rattling all of Sherlock's precious, fragile instruments. He wished they had fallen on the floor and shattered. Perhaps then Sherlock would turn his attention on John instead of the delicate glass vial in his hand. "And family is ALL we have in this world, Sherlock! What the _hell_ do you think we've been building here, you and I? What are we if not family?" John's chest felt as if it were being pressed into a vice. He meant it. Sherlock was his family. Was this really how the man saw other people? Saw him? John dealt with his disdain on a daily basis because... well... Sherlock loved him. He said he loved him. John thought he loved him. But what was love but bringing someone into your family?

Sherlock stared at John incredulously. John thought they were building a family together? A family? In Sherlock's experience families were never good. He had always thought families to be cold and loveless. What he and John had was so much more. So much... 'Why. Would I ever want to have another family? They bring you down. You can't rely on them, they only care about themselves. Nothing else. No family is better.' He said in a deadpan voice. Sherlock was horrified at the thought of he and John becoming like his family. There was no FUCKING way he was going to let that happen. He remembered that place all too well. There was no way in hell this was going to be like that. Ever.

John stared at him with a slack mouth and wide eyes. "Sherlock..." he managed to choke out, and then he turned on his heel, marching smartly to the front door of the flat. He snatched his trainers, pulled them on swiftly, grabbed his jacket, and slammed the door on the way out. He was not going to stay in the same room with that man for one second longer. John's heart was shredding itself to pieces. Sherlock was his family. Sherlock was his heart. And Sherlock wanted nothing to do with any of it. John knew he loved him. John knew this. But if Sherlock looked at love and saw selfishness... if Sherlock looked at family and saw hatred, John Watson did not know how in the bloody hell he was going to love him the way he wanted to. He walked with his hands in his pockets, breathing unsteadily, and when he looked up, he was at Sarah's.

What the hell had just happened? Sherlock had watched in shocked silence as John had stormed out of their flat, slamming the door behind him and stomping all the way downstairs. What had Sherlock said? What had he done? Why the HELL was John so worked up about this? Didn't John SEE that family was a curse? Didn't John see that he meant more to Sherlock than his own family? Why did John have to care so fucking much? Sherlock stood shakily up, steadying himself on the table, his head still reeling from the... whatever it was. John would be back. Surely he would. He'd left all his things here. He had nowhere to go. He'd be back. All Sherlock would have to do was wait. Wait for his soldier to come home. Wait for John to explain everything. Wait for John to forgive him. He'd be back. Sherlock gulped and walked over to the sofa before settling down to wait. It was only a matter of time.

The detective sat by the door for hours, just waiting for John to come back and apologise for being so angry, for him to walk through the door and forgive Sherlock. Sherlock waited and waited and waited, and as every second went by his heart began to sink further and further and further. John was not coming home.

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><p>Reviews are the jam on our toast. The John on our Sherlock. The more we get the more we want to write and the more we want to write the more we update and the more we update the more you guys can read…<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Notes:** Okay, so Wings Dipped in Silver, we promise your request is coming up in the next chapter. It just got kinda long… so we clipped it into two chapters. SO. Yes, uhm, we really had a lot of fun with this chapter. I mean… a lot.

**Warnings:** So, if you haven't read any of Calabash and my stories, then you should know here is where it gets mature. Really mature. Don't read if you don't like slash.

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><p>Sherlock opened his eyes. His back hurt like hell. It was no wondering considering the position he was in; leaning up against the sofa, his legs splayed on the floor, his head lolling to one side. He rubbed his eyes and stood up. He must have fallen asleep for a few hours while waiting for John to come home. Sherlock felt a dull throbbing in his chest. He clenched his hand against the fabric of his shirt, feeling the heart beating a fast tattoo, and closed his eyes for a moment. John had not come back last night. <em>John must be still furious.<em> Sherlock's mind raced. Would he lose John over this? This silly little tiff? Would John not forgive him? But John had to. John always forgave him. But what if he didn't this time. Sherlock ran into the kitchen and snatched up his mobile phone. It was 8:30 in the morning. No new texts. Sherlock gulped. John always sent him a morning text. Always. His fingers flew across the keypad as he typed up message after message.

_John. I'm sorry. - SH_

_I didn't mean it, John. - SH_

_I'm sorry. - SH_

John had to forgive him. He just had to.

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><p>It was 8:30 before Sherlock texted him. John glanced at his mobile, and placed it down on his desk with deliberate care. He sat back in his chair, fingers clenching the arms, and he exhaled through his nose. John pursed his lips. He stared at the phone as it buzzed again, and again a few moments later. John turned his attention to the stacks of patient charts before him, flipping through his day's work, determined not to glance again at the glowing screen. He was angry still. He felt stiff and sore and guilty, and he was in no mood to placate his petulant lover right now.<p>

There was a knock on the door, and John looked up as Sarah's head popped in, her eyes warm, her smile sympathetic as he greeted her. She slipped inside, shutting the door behind her. "All right, there, John?" she asked quietly, and he nodded.

"Yes. Thanks again, for..." John swallowed, not meeting her eyes.

Sarah shifted, coughing a bit. "Of course." He smiled at her askance, and they looked about the room, at anything but each other. The silence grew awkward. John hated awkward silence.

"I suppose I'm fortunate I left a few things at your flat," he blurted, and wished he hadn't. Why the hell did he have to bring that up?

She laughed, but her cheeks were pink. "I suppose." She approached his desk. "Busy day?"

John gestured to the stack, raising his eyebrows and smiling. "Looks to be."

"Well..." Sarah flushed deeper, and caught his eye. He felt his heart falter a bit at the hope behind that sweet gaze. "...if you need a place to kip tonight..." her voice trailed off.

John stood. He walked round the desk, and pulled her into a brief, tight embrace. "Thank you," he said gruffly. She nodded, and hastened to the door. John watched her slip out, and he sank behind his desk once more. That was bloody unfair of him. Sarah was a good woman. He shouldn't have gone to her flat the night before. He simply had no place else to go. He sighed, eyeing the mobile, and his hand shot out to snatch it before he could stop himself. He read the texts quickly, his heart racing. After a moment's indecision, John began to speedily type his reply.

_For what, Sherlock? Explain to me in minute detail exactly what you are apologizing for. And don't say "For upsetting you." – JW_

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><p>Sherlock's fingers were drumming incessantly on the arm of the sofa, his legs jiggling, his heart beating wildly. Waiting. He heard his phone pip and jumped for it, flicking it unlocked and staring at John's reply. Shit. He didn't... He didn't know exactly why John was angry or what he had done but he knew that somehow his family had a part to play in this. After all, that's when John had really gotten furious.<p>

_I am sorry for getting upset and saying I wouldn't go. It wasn't right of me. If it means that much, of course I'll go. I'm sorry for being, well, being selfish. I don't know what... I'm sorry. I was wrong. - SH_

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><p>John sat and waiting for Sherlock's reply. He knew his lover was sitting and staring at his mobile impatiently. He knew Sherlock would answer immediately, and he was not disappointed. John shook his head as the text came in less than a minute after he sent his. His brow furrowed as he read.<p>

_It means as much to me now as it did last night. You refused to go, Sherlock. Why acquiesce now? - JW_

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><p>This was bad. Normally Sherlock knew why he was knee deep in shit, but this time he had no idea. He chewed on his lip for a moment before replying.<p>

_Because I didn't realise. I didn't understand. - SH_

Sherlock still didn't understand, but somehow he felt as though that was the wrong thing to say right now. He didn't know why John was so protective of a sister who he wasn't even close to.

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><p>John snorted. His fingers flew.<p>

_And you understand now? You realize now? I don't think you do, Sherlock. And you know what? I don't give a bloody fuck that you didn't understand. I asked you to do it for me. Do you remember the last time you asked me to do for you? You asked me to stay where I was. To keep my eyes fixed on you. And I did it. All I asked for was for you to attend a bloody social function. Not watch me while I jumped off of a building. – JW_

He threw his mobile in his desk drawer, and stalked out of the room, paperwork in hand.

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><p>Sherlock's heart plummeted. John still wouldn't forgive him completely for the Rich Brook incident. Of course he wouldn't. Why wouldn't he? Sherlock didn't know. He had apologized profusely for weeks and weeks before John had melted down. There were so many thinks Sherlock didn't know because of John. It infuriated him.<p>

_No. I don't understand. Not at all. I don't understand why family is so important to you. In my experience family is pointless. They always, always betray you. Maybe I did ask you to watch me jump off a building and I am sorry for that, but it was the only way. You know that. I am sorry I didn't do it for you. I'm not used to this, John. I'm not like you. I can't just jump in right away. I've never done this before. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I should have said I would go. I should have. - SH_

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><p>It was lunch time before John looked at his messages again. He was sitting behind his desk with a large sandwich that Sarah had purchased for him, and given it to him under the guise of having "ordered the wrong thing by mistake". John knew better, but he was hungry, and he knew that deep down, Sarah knew he belonged to Sherlock. She was a kind person, and he was having a wretched day; he felt only the smallest twinge of guilt as he devoured the club sandwich, fingers lazily digging into a bag of crisps. He purposefully enjoyed every bite, brushing crumbs on his jumper for Sherlock to deduce later, and finally he retrieved the mobile from his desk. John felt his chest constrict. Sherlock was nothing if not honest. He thought for several minutes before replying. This needed to be carefully worded.<p>

_I don't expect you to understand. If I had a brother like Mycroft, I'd hate my family too. Sometimes, I still do. But I am asking you to jump in for me, Sherlock. I need to know if you are willing to jump in. Because if not, if we aren't making a family here, if we are just shagging, then we are wasting our time. Bloody hell, I didn't even come home last night. - JW_

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><p>Sherlock waited for hours, just sitting on the sofa and staring at his phone, not moving except for a few furtive glances to the door and a random finger twitch, refusing to send another text lest he annoyed John to the brink of anger. When he heard his mobile go off he picked it up and read the text.<p>

_I don't want to make a family with you. Not like that. I want something more. Something better. If I wasn't willing to jump I wouldn't have... I wouldn't have given into myself. If I didn't think you were worth it I wouldn't have started this with you in the first place. I want to be with you, John. But I'm not sure how relationships work. I've read about 20 books on them, but I still can't figure them out. I want to be with you. Please come home tonight. I am sorry. - SH_

_I am so sorry. - SH_

_Please come home. - SH_

_Forgive me. - SH_

Sherlock had to physically stop himself from sending anymore texts to his lover. He sounded pathetic.

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><p><em>But I DO want a family with you. – JW<em>

John felt his eyes prickle, and he shoved his sleeve at them angrily. Fucking Sherlock! Fucking idiotic sociopath!

_You are my family, Sherlock. That's the point, isn't it? Betrayal isn't family. Anger and rivalry and jealously.. that's not family either. This is family. What we have. Family is sacrifice and love and loyalty in the face of insurmountable odds. Family is going to a baby shower. Family is picking up milk and beans. Family is forgiving when you are broken hearted. I want a family with you, Sherlock Holmes. And if you don't want that, what am I to think? - JW_

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><p><em>Oh.<em> Sherlock felt stupid. That was... _of course_. He could see it now. He could see it so clearly. Now he understood why John had been so angry.

_I didn't think about it like that. – SH_

_Of course I want all that with you. If... if it's you then, then I'd give anything a try. If you think... if this is a family in your eyes then I want it. I want you to be happy. I want you to stay with me. – SH_

_Please don't leave me alone tonight. – SH_

_Please. Forgive me. – SH_

_Please. – SH_

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><p>John had patients. He had much to say to this man, much to teach him. There had been a time, when they first began to make love in their flat, that John had imagined nothing could be more perfect, more amazingly pristine and untainted, than this connection that he and Sherlock shared. He still felt that way most days, but... John was only beginning to scratch the surface of the depth of childish ignorance possessed by his lover. If he could ever get his hands on the people responsible for fucking up Sherlock's heart so royally, John thought he might empty his pistol in their temples. What the hell kind of childhood had this man had? He typed out one more text before gathering himself for his next patient.<p>

_I'll be home tonight, Sherlock. Stop fretting. – JW_

He ambled to the examination room, for the first time hoping that Sherlock didn't ask about his whereabouts the night previous. For the world's most clever man, Sherlock was terribly jealous.

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><p>Sherlock let out a long breath. John was coming home tonight. John would be there. Sherlock wouldn't have to be alone. He didn't think he could manage being alone after John. The detective had never liked being alone in the first place; it was why he'd been looking for a flat mate. Someone to be there. He could afford the damn flat all on his own if he wanted to, that'd just been an excuse, so he would not have to admit to anyone let alone himself that he did not like being by himself. But with John... he couldn't ever imagine being without that short, loving, angry man.<p>

_Thank you. - SH_

The sleuth desperately wanted to ask John where he'd been without his wallet or a change of clothes. He had a sneaking suspicion that he knew exactly where John had spent the night, but he didn't want to think about that. Surely John hadn't done... Surely he hadn't.

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><p>John smiled softly. A nurse was speaking to him, but her voice sounded far away. The fury that had been boiling in his gut not so very long before was slowly dissolving, replaced by a warm, soft feeling that spread in his limbs, tingled in his skin, heated his heart. <em>Damned Sherlock<em>. Always so open, so disarmingly honest. He tried not to let his eyes drift back to his pocket, where two words blinked on his mobile screen… Lovely. Plaintive. Adorable. _Fuck_. Sherlock was adorable. He waited until the nurse had slipped away before scrambling to reply.

_You're welcome. Wanker. - JW_

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><p><em>Forgive me? - SH<em>

Sherlock knew John had, but he needed to ask. He needed John to tell him. Lazily Sherlock stretched out on the sofa and closed his eyes. Things were better now. Deep down, though, there was a little nagging feeling that was suspiciously similar to guilt and Sherlock did not like it. If John had been to Sarah's, well, he was almost sure John would never cheat on him, but what if – no, John wouldn't do that. Unlike Sherlock, John had strong morals. He wouldn't do something like that unless they had truly broken up, and Sherlock would do his damned best to make sure that never happened.

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><p><em>That depends. – JW<em>

John grinned into the sink as he scrubbed up, his mind most definitely not on the examination he was about to perform. His chest felt light. He glanced at the clock, dismayed that he still had a few hours until he was off for the day. He missed that damned, rude, idiotic genius back at the flat.

_Are you going to the party? - JW_

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><p>Sherlock let out a few choice profanities as he read John's text. He really did not want to go to the damn thing. The detective really did love John and he hoped that John would see how much he did by this act.<p>

_If you want me to. - SH_

His chin jutted out and he glared, crossing his arms. Sherlock knew very well what the reply would be. _Damn._

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><p>John giggled. <em>Dammmiiiit<em>. Sarah walked by his open office door, and he glanced up from his texting, shooting her a sheepish smile. She smirked, shaking her head, and continued on down the hall. They both knew where he would be sleeping tonight after all. He felt a rush of fondness for her.

_I do. I not only want you to go, I expect you to be delightfully charming. – JW_

Two more hours. Two more hours, and he would be home.

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><p><em>...do I have to? - SH<em>

Sherlock pouted. This was not how he wanted to spend a Sunday. He'd wanted to spend the entire weekend shagging John senseless since neither he nor John had much to do on weekends. Sherlock tried to keep them as open as possible now that he and John had become lovers. He loved spending time with his doctor, he loved spending time shagging his doctor.

* * *

><p>John did not answer until he was pulling on his jacket to leave. He was knackered. Utterly exhausted. He was eager to get home and have a shower and crawl into bed with Sherlock. He stifled a yawn, waving at the office crew, giving Sarah a quick squeeze, and he was out the door, making for the tube. As he sat on a hard bench, waiting for the train, John's mind wandered back to the night before.<p>

Sarah had opened her door, clutching her dressing gown close, her eyes wide and confused. He hadn't said much… a few mumbled words about needing a breather, and she let him in without question. They'd sat and had a cuppa, not really talking, and when he made no move to leave, she slipped out of the front room, bringing him back a pillow and a blanket. His pillow and blanket. The ones he'd used countless times while they were dating. It was awkward, and yet strangely comforting, to be kipping on Sarah's sofa again. It seemed to be the thing to do when he was angry with Sherlock. John smiled gently, studying his hands. Was this why he'd never made it to Sarah's bed? Every time he slept over, it was because of his bloody flat mate, and his flat mate was all that was on his mind. All the time. All the damned time.

No wonder she broke it off with him.

_Look at the invite, Sherlock. It says your name on it. Yes, you have to. – JW_

_We can shag after. - JW_

* * *

><p>The text broke Sherlock's reverie. He was standing looking out the window at the almost empty street below him, waiting and contemplating yesterday's fight. With a gusty sigh he twitched his nose, flipped the phone a few times before replying.<p>

_If I have to then I will sweep everyone off their feet with how charming I am. - SH_

_PS We'd damn well better shag afterward._

* * *

><p><em>Oh, we will. – JW<em>

John grinned like a maniac, shouldering his bag and stepping into the tube. He swung himself down on a chair. An elderly woman sitting across from him gave him an odd look, and John flushed. He shifted in his seat.

_When have I ever refused a good, hard shag? Almost home. - JW_

* * *

><p>Sherlock snorted.<p>

_Fair point. - SH_

He jumped up in the air and let out a hiss of delight. John was almost home and then they could be together again. Everything was alright again. Everything was good.

* * *

><p>"Sherlock?" John dropped his jacket and bag on the back of his armchair the moment he walked in the door. He stopped, breathing in the slightly damp air of his Baker Street flat with a satisfied sigh. It was comforting, this… the sweet scent of Sherlock's shampoo, his aftershave, their musty draperies, a slightly acrid chemical smell, and the distinctive aroma of Chinese takeout. John almost groaned in relief. Sherlock had gone out to get dinner. John looked about for his lover. "Sherlock?"<p>

Sherlock stood up quickly from his stool in the kitchen and walked to the doorway, leaning against it and smiling a little sheepishly. 'I got us some food.' He said, waving his hand at the table. 'Chinese.'

"Ta, I love Chinese." John tilted his head with an encouraging nod. "That was thoughtful, Sherlock." He took a step closer, near enough to feel the warmth radiating from Sherlock's skin tight clothing. Why the hell did this man dress like this just to lounge about the flat? John swallowed the thick desire that sprung immediately upon seeing the expanse of white skin beneath the purple silk shirt. He glanced at the table, at the food, and his stomach growled.

Sherlock's eyes shifted from his lover to the food and reached forward, putting a hand on John's waist. 'Let's eat.' He said without looking at John. Gently sliding his arm around John a little more confidently, he shepherded John to the table. 'Sit.' Sherlock pulled a chair out for John and firmly pressed his hands on those muscular shoulders. This was part of his apology. He didn't need John to know that, but he knew that he did need to do something else for John. Something besides just going to that bloody party.

John flushed a bit as Sherlock placed his hand flat and warm on his back, encouraging him into a seat at the table. He glanced down, blinking. Sherlock had set out plates. Flatware. Glasses. He lifted his eyebrows. "Is that wine?" he asked incredulously. Sherlock smiled a bit, and John reached for his glass. He brought it to his lips. _Oh_.. oh it was. He sipped, making a satisfied moaning noise in the back of his throat as the liquid sloshed in his mouth. "Sherlock, that's... that's brilliant." He grinned up at him. "You're outdone yourself, you have."

Sherlock felt positively elated at John's praise. He turned away from John and busied himself with the take-away so as to hide his pleasure from that one simple phrase. 'Well, I thought it might be nice for a change.' He murmured, sniffing each item to make sure they had the proper amount of everything John liked in them. They did. 'I had a time trying to decide between the different wines. In the end I chose Pinot Noir. It will complement the pork quite nicely, I believe.' He added rather haughtily. Sherlock did not drink often, but when he did he preferred to have the very best liquor available. He was somewhat of a connoisseur.

John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's back. Aside from Mycroft, he had never met the rest of Sherlock's family, but he knew that he came from wealth... perhaps had a little blue blood running through those veins. It made sense. Everything about the Holmes boys suggested a sense of superiority that could not be completely explained away by their shared inhuman intellect. It was something they were born with, and would never be shot of. John's eyes studied his face as he turned, his pale hands dishing out the food deftly. The picture of Sherlock, draped in a high collared black velvet dinner jacket, sitting next to a massive fireplace with a great mastiff curled at his feet invaded John's senses, and he snorted, pretending to sneeze to cover up the laughter. It was true. Those cheekbones screamed nobility. As Sherlock sank into the chair opposite, John wondered how he, a short army doctor with a bad temper, came to be here in the first place. He felt like a peasant, dining with a prince. The prince peered at him curiously, and John grinned across the table, shaking his head. "You're full of surprises, Sherlock."

Sherlock frowned thoughtfully. 'That's good, right?' He asked somewhat dubiously as he lifted his pair of chopsticks from the table. The detective gazed intently at John, trying to figure out where he'd been last night. John had eaten a sandwich for lunch. Someone – _Sarah_ – must have bought it for him because he hadn't had his wallet or any money. The jumper was an older one of John's, something Sherlock hadn't seen in a long time. The jeans were older, too. He smelled like he hadn't taken a shower. That was a good sign, but he had brushed his teeth. The toothpaste was a fruity one. Bad sign. As the pieces were starting to come together the picture began to look more and more like what Sherlock had feared. John had stayed at Sarah's. Sarah was the only one of John's previous girlfriends that had ever given Sherlock a cause to worry. He had always been half sure that John would leave him completely and live with Sarah. Sometimes Sherlock wondered why he hadn't. Surely Sarah was a better companion. She didn't play the violin at half passed three in the morning, she didn't shoot guns off after midnight, she didn't set fire to bins or leave body parts in the fridge. She was a woman. Yes, Sherlock often wondered how he'd ever been so lucky as to have capture John Watson's fancy.

John nodded, tucking in immediately. The sandwich he'd had for lunch was long gone, and his stomach had been growling all the way home. He'd been so concerned with getting back to the flat, back to Sherlock, that he hadn't noticed how very hungry he'd become. Then again, he never ate well when he was rowing with Sherlock. But now that the aroma of pork and steamed rice and bamboo shoots and carrots was wafting in his nostrils, John was positively starving. He alternated between mouthfuls of food and sips of wine, which was, as Sherlock claimed, really splendid, and after several minutes of eating in relative silence, John glanced up at him companion, his mouth full. His heart stuttered. Sherlock's clear eyes were fixed on him, on his face, his clothes, skimming over every inch of him. John frowned. He gave himself a quick once-over, wondering if he'd spilt rice on himself... and then he sighed, looking up. Sherlock's brow was furrowed. John shook his head, dropping his chopsticks on the table and folding his arms over his chest. "All right then," he said resignedly. "Out with it. What do you see? I know you're reading me, so just… let's have it then, shall we?"

Sherlock cleared his throat and looked down at his plate. 'You stayed at Sarah's.' It was not a question. He simply stated the obvious. 'I've memorized every single piece of clothing you have and I haven't seen what you're wearing since you two ended it.'

John nodded, smacking his lips a bit. "Yes, yes I did." He narrowed his eyes at the detective, cocking his head. Sherlock sat across from him, stiff and solemn, boring holes into his dinner with bright, silver eyes. His face was placid, but a tiny twitch of his nose belied his duress. John leaned back in his chair. "It bothers you."

Sherlock shrugged noncommittally, still not looking at John. 'No,' he lied. Suddenly he stood up and walked over to the old phonograph he'd collected years ago during a case involving a Greek merchant and a dubious pair of scissors. 'How about some music? Bach would go nicely with dinner, I think.'

"Sherlock." John watched his back as he searched through the small collection of records, mumbling to himself, fidgeting with the phonograph. He waited patiently for him to return, and with him, a beautiful, lilting strain filled the space between them. John listened a moment, and peered at his friend. His lover. His family. "What's this piece?" He knew little about classical music; John's taste ran more towards the upbeat. Something he could dance to. But he knew Sherlock loved to talk about it, and if there was one sure way to get him to open up and talk, asking about his music was probably it.

Sherlock brightened and his eyes lit up. 'This is one of my favourite pieces of Bach's. The Violin Sonata No. 1 in G minor. It's a stunning piece of workmanship, though I prefer it is traditionally played with the harpsichord I have the piano accompaniment as I like how it sounds better.' He said eagerly. 'Bach was a tremendously talented composer, especially his pieces for the violin.' Sherlock looked at the phonograph with a vague smile on his face, remembering the first time he'd ever heard this very piece of music. The passion he'd heard it played. It had made him want very much to learn how to play the violin. He'd been so young. Music was a form of escape for him back then and this piece, the very first song he'd ever learnt to play... yes, he loved this piece very much.

John sat in silence a while longer, listening to the music. It was mournful. Eerie. Nice. They eventually began to eat again, picking at the Chinese food, throwing one another subtle glances. John cleared his throat, taking a larger gulp of his wine. "So, are you going to ask me?" He could see the question in Sherlock's eyes. He knew he was dying to know. It hurt him that Sherlock would even have the doubt, lurking behind that cool facade, but John knew that this was no ordinary relationship. When he took Sherlock Holmes as a lover, John knew what he was getting himself into. This was an adventure, with every day being different than the last. Everything was new to Sherlock, as was evidenced by the row they had the night before, and if John thought about it logically, he was every bit as much to blame for it. _Of course_ Sherlock didn't understand. His family was bloody dysfunctional on a thousand different levels. His mother never tucked him in. His father had an affair, which Sherlock himself had uncovered, and bloody hell, that had to have been traumatizing to say the least. John knew that deep down, Sherlock blamed himself for his father's absence in his life. He'd been left with no male influence but for Mycroft, that was a frightening prospect. John took another bite, trying to school his face into a calm, soothing expression. It wasn't easy. He just wanted to talk and get it out of the way so they could be all right again.

'Ask what?' Sherlock queried. He knew what John was getting at, but he didn't want to talk about it. There was a tiny part of him that was worried if they ever talked about this that John would say "sod it" and walk off. And besides... Holmes men never talked about their "feelings" or such personal issues. Ever. It was unheard of. Sherlock wouldn't even know where to start.

"It's okay, you know." John waited until Sherlock met his gaze, and he gave him a small, encouraging smile. "We're okay. We had a row, Sherlock. It's going to happen. When I get angry, I need air. I have a temper. You know it. I know it. But it's fine now. You can ask me." He reached across the table, and brushed his worn hand against Sherlock's. It was smooth, and silken, and John loved those hands. They were the cause of so much pleasure, so much sweetness in his life. His fingers sought long, white, slender digits, interlacing with them snugly.

Sherlock stared at John's hand gently holding onto his and tightened his fingers around John's. 'You and Sarah…' He blinked a few times, unsure how to finish the question. 'It's... it's alright, right?' Sherlock looked up into John's kind eyes and bit his lip. 'Right?'

John squeezed his hand. He spoke slowly, deliberately. "Sherlock, in all the time that we've known one another... have I ever betrayed you? Even once? In the smallest, most trivial way?"

With a small, slightly relieved sigh Sherlock returned the squeeze with a hesitant one of his own and shook his head. No, John had never betrayed Sherlock. John had always fought for him. 'No.'

"All right then." John looked down at Sherlock's plate, overflowing with food. He had barely touched a thing. He pulled his hand back, retrieving his chop sticks and poking them at Sherlock's chest. "Tuck in, then. I'm tired. Thought we could turn in early." John stuffed a large chunk of pork into his mouth, eyes dancing in amusement. "Sarah's sofa is every bit as wretched as I remember."

Sherlock followed suit and bit into a piece of pork. 'Yes, that sounds nice. The floor really isn't very comfortable, either.' He rubbed a shoulder ruefully and shook his head. 'I'm glad you're back.' Sherlock continued to eat the food, his ears burning. Though he would never admit it, he'd missed John terribly.

John opened his mouth to comment on that... but he shut it again. Sherlock had waited for him. Probably all night. He swallowed the pork, but the lump in his throat stayed. John breathed deeply, guilt weighing heavy on his heart. He was supposed to help Sherlock through these things, help Sherlock adjust to normality, to life, to people. Instead, he'd made it worse. John shifted in his chair, glancing up at the array of food on the table, the wine, the table settings. Sherlock was trying. He was trying so hard. John felt... terribly abashed. "I'm sorry," he whispered, and Sherlock's hands stopped moving. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, I should have come home. I shan't do it again. I promise."

Sherlock ducked his head, not looking at John. Damn it. He'd made him feel bad. That was not what he'd been aiming at. 'S'okay,' he mumbled, 'I understand... Let's just finish eating and go to bed.' Everything was alright again. Sherlock simply wanted to be near John, nothing else mattered much right now. 'I'll do the dishes.'

"Leave them." At Sherlock's upraised eyebrow, John shrugged. "We'll do them in the morning. Can't be worse than some of the experiments you've left out for days on end." He pushed his plate away, groaning, and shoved back from the table. He was full, but Sherlock wasn't done eating. John stood for a moment, then marched around to stand behind his lover, resting his chin on Sherlock's thin shoulder, nuzzling his nose into the nape of his neck. "Go on, finish," he breathed, slipping his strong arms around that slender waist. He felt the tremor in Sherlock's body, and John thrilled to it. He placed a light kiss on one ear, dark curls tickling his face. _Oh, yes… this felt good. This felt right._ John smiled against his neck, content.

Sherlock leaned his head back against John's and let out a tiny sound of pleasure. This sort of intimacy always surprised and pleased Sherlock. He was sure that he'd never get used to it, and a little scared that he would. 'I'm not hungry. Let's go to bed.' With a little shrug, Sherlock captured John's lips in his and gave him a light kiss. 'Let's just sleep.' John was tired and Sherlock, well, Sherlock would be more than happy just to lie next to his lover and watch him fall asleep.

John pulled him up without another word, and wound his arms around his neck. _And there it was._.. The last piece of the puzzle of their love fell into place once more. John melted into him. Their lips met, and they stood in the kitchen, mouths seeking one another, working softly, tongues sliding against each other, John's body pressing closer. His pulse sped up, and it was a wonder to him, as it was every time he kissed Sherlock, that the passion still rose, heating between them, as powerful as the first time. He gasped quietly as Sherlock's teeth nipped at his lip, and John grunted, pushing himself up into the warmth of his lover's lean embrace. Sherlock's hands grappled at his jumper, drawing him ever closer, and the kiss became deeper, slower, and oh, so sweet. John had to pull back for air, panting, and he shuddered at the love, the hunger and raw emotion in that angelic face. He took Sherlock's hand, and turned on his heel, leading him away from the kitchen, to their bedroom.

Sherlock was pleased, no, elated. He was the luckiest man in the world, surely. There were so many people who would kill to be where he was, to be like him, to have John. He followed somewhat demurely, clutching on to John's hand. When they reached the bedroom John sat Sherlock down and Sherlock looked up at him, his heart almost bursting with warmth. Sherlock held his arms out, waiting for John to lean forward and press Sherlock's head to his chest, to run his fingers through Sherlock's hair. This was something Sherlock was secretly very fond of. He'd seen it in so many pictures, he'd seen how naturally ordinary people hugged like this and he'd always been curious how it would feel to be pressed against someone's chest, to feel their heart beating against his head. Sherlock bowed his head, not looking at John. He was still incredibly embarrassed and more than a little shy about this. It didn't matter how many times they'd shagged, this was different. Sherlock couldn't explain it, but it was somehow... it made him feel more vulnerable than he would like to admit.

John stood back, surveying the man on the bed. _Fuck. Fuck._ He felt his breath pull in and out of his chest in great rasps as Sherlock held those long arms out to him, eyes downcast and hopeful. John slid into them without a second's hesitation. This man... this man was his life. It was as if he had not even existed before Sherlock. Had he been born? Had he grown up, had friends, had lovers, gone to Afghanistan? John was no longer sure of any of it. The only thing he was sure of was the moment in St. Bart's when their fingertips touched for the first time as he handed Sherlock his mobile, and the world faded away into naught. Time was now divided by before and after Sherlock, and _hell_, nothing before Sherlock mattered worth two pence anyway. John cradled his lover, burying his face in Sherlock's curls, inhaling them, whispering wordless, loving noises. He moaned as Sherlock inclined into his chest, clutching at him again, and John let go just long enough to swiftly drag his jumper over his head, throwing it on the floor, muttering encouragingly as Sherlock's fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt. That fell as well, and naked from the waist up, John drew Sherlock in once more, kissing his forehead, pressing him to his heart. "Hear that, Sherlock?" he murmured, fingers tangling in the hair on the back of his head. "It's yours, all yours. Always has been."

Sherlock had been right, this did feel nice. The sound of John's beating heart. All his. He smiled happily and closed his eyes, adoring the feeling of John's warm skin, the sound of his steady heart, the way his fingers gently caressed his hair. Sherlock put his arms around John's waist once again and sighed contentedly, pulling his lover close. 'I'm glad.' He whispered. No one had ever loved him this much, been completely his before. That was something Sherlock was quite sure of. 'I'm glad.'

They stood for long moments before slowly drifting apart, long enough to peel the remaining layers of clothing off. John's skin felt hot, all over. He felt dizzy, as if something were happening here... something new. This was not shagging. This was not even making love. This was... new. The emotions were building, compounding, creating something solid and permanent. He felt small, and insignificant in the face of it. "Sh..herlock..." He gasped as Sherlock's hands brushed his naked thighs, pushing his jeans down, and the tall, beautiful detective responded with a whimpered hiss. John's tanned hands slipped beneath Sherlock's jacket, working it off of his shoulders, and he wedged himself between thin legs, thumbs digging into the silk shirt as he unbuttoned it, and discarded both. He pulled Sherlock to stand up, letting his hands wander over his hips, his arse, between his thighs as he managed to get the trousers and shorts off, leaving them standing in their bedroom, naked, raw, bare... exposed.

Sherlock's hands found their way to John's hips, gently rubbing his thumbs against the smooth skin, guiding his lover back to the bed and sitting down, hugging John close once more. Suddenly Sherlock felt an impossible to resist urge and he flicked his tongue out, licking up John's navel, passing his belly button. He pressed his nose into the muscled abdomen and smelled John, taking deep breaths, allowing his lover's scent to engulf him. 'I love you,' he breathed against John's skin. 'So much.'

John choked as Sherlock's tongue dragged against his flesh, and he let his head fall back, his chest hitching. His grip in Sherlock's thick hair tightened, and he bit back a moan. This was more intimacy than he had ever experienced in his entire life. John had made love to many people. There was a time when he had been rather proud of his personal conquests. But never had he held someone this close, been so invested, so vulnerable, so interwoven with anyone. He rocked into Sherlock's hands, into his body, shivering at the familiar comfort of finger pads on the globes of his buttocks. Sherlock was breathing in his scent, thick, velvety lips brushing his muscles, and he swallowed dryly. "I love you," he groaned, his cheeks darkening as his body stirred, responding with enthusiasm to his young lover's proximity, to their tender closeness.

Sherlock felt John harden slightly and he smiled against the golden skin of his soldier's stomach before swirling his tongue down, gently dipping into his perfectly formed belly button before burying his nose into the curly mass of brown hair and letting out a long breath against the base of John's cock. Without wasting another second his tongue flitted against the quickly stiffening shaft. Sherlock heard John moan and felt him stiffen as Sherlock began to trail kisses along his length, pressing his fingers into the heated flesh, lifting it up to his mouth. He paused for a moment and looked up at John, his lips hovering open next to that gorgeous cock, just waiting to devour it. Sherlock smiled a little before dipping his tongue into the slit and circling it around the head, all the while listening to John's little moans and gasps. Sherlock loved this.

"Shit..." John's knees buckled. He grabbed onto Sherlock's shoulders for support, his eyes heavily lidded. Sherlock straightened just long enough to grab him by the waist and drag him onto the bed, positioning him on his back with his legs spread wide. John did not resist. He couldn't. He was overwhelmed, by the thickness of the love in the atmosphere, by Sherlock's seductive voice whispering to him to relax, by the teasing touch of his hands on his body. He watched helplessly as Sherlock bent over him, icy eyes aflame, and that wicked mouth found its way back to his erection. John sucked in a mouthful of air, coiling as he felt the wet heat envelope him again, madly, slowly caressing him with teeth and tongue and pliant lips until he was melting into the mattress, his thighs falling apart, his fingers grasping at the bed sheets. "More," he begged. "Please, love, more... Sherlock... _Sherlock_.."

Sherlock's fingers danced across John's body for a few moments before coming to rest on his hips. He bobbed his head forward and took John in almost completely. Sherlock hummed a little, dragging his teeth along the shaft, moaning around the hot cock, feeling the precum against the back of his throat. He pushed his hands into John's hips, telling him to move, telling him it was time. Time to fuck Sherlock's mouth hard and fast and without holding back.

John sighed, settling back on the bed, his hands moving from the sheets to Sherlock's head, and he grabbed large handfuls of dark locks, twisting them in his fingers. He bucked up gently, clenching his teeth, his thigh muscles straining, and began a very slow rhythm, in and out, pleasure washing over him in tangible waves. Sherlock was making delicious noises around his cock, and John arched, letting the sensations fill him, take over, eat him up inside. Every nerve sang with the joy of being devoured by Sherlock. Every thought process firing off in his simple, human mind was full of Sherlock. He whined, speeding up, his hips grinding up into the cavernous bliss of his lover's mouth, the hedonistic delight amplified a thousand times by the intensity of the affection he felt for this man. He belonged to Sherlock Holmes. He would belong to this one person for the rest of his bloody life.

_Family._ John Watson had made a family.

He cried out, fingers tugging, and he began to fuck that hot, sexy mouth, feverish and hard.

Sherlock did his best not to choke as John began to pound into his mouth. This sensation was wonderful, it was more than Sherlock would have ever expected. He'd never understood this before John, he'd never understood why people submitted to these base desires, but now... Sherlock let out a string of moans and groans as John thrust his hips up, completely owning Sherlock's mouth with his wicked cock. Really, this did not happen enough in Sherlock's opinion. He loved it when John became incapable of speaking, thinking, of doing anything except move against Sherlock. There was an immense amount of pride in Sherlock's mind as he thought that he was the only one who could make John Watson go berserk like this. Turn into an animal like this. Sherlock felt his own dick hot and hard between his legs and he shifted a hand to it, quickly beginning to pump it in rhythm with John's frantic movements. Fuck. It was so good. So _fucking_ good.

"D...Don't.." John was having a very difficult time forming words. He knew what he needed to say, but... _fuck_ it was hard to speak. He gazed down, watching as he slammed his cock up into Sherlock's open mouth, fucking it with abandon, his eyes clouding as Sherlock's hand jerked his own shaft, so long, so rosy and gorgeous... _so fucking appetizing_. John wailed as Sherlock's teeth grazed the sensitive rim of his cock, and he shoved Sherlock's head down, hard, jolting as he felt himself collide with the back of his throat. "Don't... cum... yet," he grated out, his face flooded with heat, his body rigid. He had to remind himself to breathe. Sherlock's brow lined for a moment, and John could almost sense the confusion in him, but Sherlock hummed around him agreeably, and John moaned. He let himself relax again, pulling Sherlock's head down over and over forcibly, until he was shouting, hoarse, and high pitched. His climax crept up on him, starting as a slow burn in his toes, dancing up his thighs, spreading in pleasurable tingles throughout his chest and stomach, and suddenly, quite suddenly, John's eyes flew open and he screamed. "SHERLOOOCK! FUCKING HELL!" He arched off the bed, toes curling, head thrown back, neck exposed and taut, and he was cumming, hard, exploding in his lover's throat.

Sherlock's gag reflex almost kicked in before he willed himself to relax and let John's cum shoot down his throat in heavy spurts. He closed his eyes and leaned in for a moment, taking John completely in his mouth as the man shuddered and the last surge was over. Sherlock pulled away and threw his head back, swallowing every last bit of sticky semen with one big gulp. He looked at John and licked his lips. 'I... love. Tasting. You.' He purred, kneeling up and smiling. It was true; Sherlock did love the way John tasted. He also loved the way he smelled and felt and sounded. The detective moaned a little and gently brushed his finger across the tip of his own, painfully hard cock. He looked down at it and then back at John, uttering a silent plea. _Can I touch it now? Please, can I cum?_

John took a moment to calm his breathing, to bring his body back under control. He crooked a finger at Sherlock, and his tall companion crawled up to straddle his chest, John propped up against the mounds of pillows. He reached up with shaking arms, and slid his hands down the length of Sherlock's body, from shoulders to rear end, his fingers gentle and worshipful. He met Sherlock's eyes. In them was reflected the adoration and passion that John knew filled his own gaze, and he laughed softly at the magnificence of it. In that moment, John felt truly, deeply sorry for the rest of the world. No one had known a love like this. It seemed unfair that he should have such beauty, such devotion, when the rest of the world starved. But he was glad of it, and John leaned forward, nuzzling his nose into the crook of Sherlock's thigh and groin. "Touch yourself for me," he whispered, and, eyes trained on Sherlock's, John positioned himself directly before that thick, long, dripping cock... with his mouth wide open. "Do it. Stroke yourself," he said with a shuddering rasp. "Cum in my mouth, Sherlock."

Sherlock let out a moan and his body convulsed with the overwhelming sex that was John Watson. 'Fuuuckkkk,' he whimpered. With two tremulous fingers he brushed the tip of his cock, rubbing the precum between his thumb and forefinger before tracing them down the head and grasping his length, gently pumping it, tossing his head back and letting out low guttural sounds. He jerked on his cock even harder and faster. John's proximity, John's ardent gaze mad everything sharper, everything more arousing. 'Fuck. Fuck. John, oh fuuuuckkkk!' He could feel himself getting closer and closer. Felt the heat and pressure building up inside him, feeling that giddy sensation overwhelming him, pushing him to the brink of insanity before dragging him back. With a sudden movement, he grasped the back of John's head and pushed inside him and shoved once. That was enough to send Sherlock over the edge. He felt himself cumming, his whole body shake and rock with the force of his ejaculation. Something about his lover watching him wank made Sherlock feel incredibly hot and so fucking turned on. He shouted out John's name over and over, his eyes popping.

A thousand images flew through John's mind at once as Sherlock unloaded in his mouth, the sperm burning down his throat. _Touching Sherlock for the first time. Laughing with him. Being furious with him. The first moment he knew he would die for him. The first time he wanked in his room, moaning Sherlock's name into a pillow. Standing by his grave. Their reunion. Holding him all night. The first time they made love... _John drank it all down with Sherlock's cum, and as he felt the last pump, the last shiver, John grabbed him roughly by the shoulders, dragging Sherlock in for a kiss. They both had semen on their lips, on their tongues, and as they embraced wildly, their fluids mixed and mingled until one was indistinguishable from the other. John did not speak. Nothing needed to be said. He pulled his lover down on the bed, continuing the kiss, wrapping limbs about him. He did not want to stop snogging him. Not for the rest of his days.

Sherlock gladly kissed John back with every bit as much as he received. Their arms tangled around each other, their legs intertwining, both of the men wanting to feel as much of the other as was humanly possible. All that could be heard were the sounds of heavy breathing, the tell-tale sounds of lips moulding together, tongues searching, moans and gasps and cries of pleasure. Finally they broke apart, gasping for breath. They just looked at each other, their chests rising and falling in tandem. Neither of them speaking a word. Sherlock reached a hand out and clasped it around one of John's, pulling it to his breast so John could feel his racing heart. Beating for no one else. Only John. He gazed into his lover's eyes and leaned his head against a pillow. He was John's, forever and always.

John let his hand rest against Sherlock's chest, against that great heart, and he ducked in, wrapping his arms around him, nestling his head against the rapid beating. He fit there, small and compact against the lean frame of his lover. John licked his lips, tasted the last bits of Sherlock on them, and he closed his eyes. Resting on the detective's chest, John drifted away to a dreamless sleep.

Sherlock felt tears prick his eyes for no good reason. He held John's head to his chest, gently cradling him. Never in his life would Sherlock ever have expected to be this intimate with anyone before and now that he was... he could never imagine being without it. Slowly he dozed off; waking up every few hours to make sure John was still comfortable lying against him.

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><p>Reviews are like tea and biscuits - Absolutely delicious and always welcome.<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Notes: **Okay Wings Dipped in Silver, here is your request. I hope that it lives up to your expectations and meets all the requirements. It's slightly altered, but we hope that's okay.

**Warnings: **Though I don't really see why I should be doing this right now, because if you're reading this then you've made it through the other chapter just fine. Well, anyway, here's where the real shagging starts. M for lots and lots of shagging and some very dirty talking.

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><p>Sherlock opened his eyes at exactly 5:38 AM Saturday morning after sleeping a few scant hours next to his lover. He looked down at John and smiled, brushing his hand in the soft sandy hair. He really did love John so very, very much. Sherlock let out a little sigh and closed his eyes for a few minutes before opening them again. An idea had suddenly struck him. He remembered one time after a particularly wild shag that he'd been on the receiving end of, John had woken up early and brought him breakfast in bed. Well, why couldn't he do the same? Surely John deserved it. And it wasn't like the sleuth didn't know how to cook! Not that he'd ever actually cooked anything before... but... how hard could it be, right? He carefully detached himself from John's possessive limbs and stood up, watching John for a few seconds to make sure he was still well and truly asleep. With a decisive nod he grabbed up his blue and white striped pyjama bottoms, a clean t shirt, and a dressing gown before dashing into the loo. After a couple minutes he was out, fully dressed, his face freshly washed, his bladder relieved, and a conspiratorial smile ensconced on his face. Quietly he crept down the hall and entered the kitchen. Absentmindedly flicking the switch to the light he walked to the counter and picked up the only cookbook they owned. The tall man glanced at a recipe for waffles, memorizing it before closing the book with a snap and getting out a large bowl. He was going to need flour, eggs, milk, baking powder, sugar, oil, whipping cream, maple syrup, and strawberries. This was going to be perfect.<p>

Sherlock rummaged about in the cabinets and the fridge, searching for all the items he needed. With a frustrated growl he started to slam the cabinet door shut before he remembered John was still sleeping and caught it before it hit the base. His heart thudding, Sherlock looked behind him where he knew the army doctor lay sleeping in their room. The sleuth sat on his stool and contemplated what he should do next. Run down to the Tesco or bother Mrs Hudson_... Tesco or Mrs Hudson?_ The choice was obvious. Sherlock scurried across the flat and ran down the stairs till he reached Mrs Hudson's door. He rapped smartly on the door, shifting impatiently. It was just after 6 in the morning and their landlady would just be starting to wake up. He let out an annoyed groan and knocked again.

There was a shuffling noise behind the door, and it creaked open, just a sliver. "Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson's voice croaked as she peered at him with bleary eyes, clutching her nightie close. She squeaked as he barreled past her into her flat, making for the kitchen. "Sherlock! What are you doing? What time is it?" she cried, scurrying after him. After all this time, she was used to his antics, but really now, barging into her flat at this ungodly hour was just too much. She hadn't even had her cuppa tea yet! Mrs. Hudson clucked, patting at her head full of curlers. "Sherlock!"

'Where is your flour, Mrs Hudson? This is important!' Sherlock called behind him as he began pulling out different tins on the countertop. 'Flour! Whipping cream and strawberries!' He turned to look at her and raised an eyebrow 'And if you have any baking powder that would come in handy.' She just stared at him and he sighed exasperatedly. 'Your baking supplies, Mrs Hudson! Hurry now!'

She jumped, scampering to her cabinets, snatching at the bags and boxes as Sherlock barked out commands. She didn't ask why; she didn't want to know. The last time he asked for baking soda, there had been a sizeable explosion in the middle of the night. That had tacked on quite a tidy sum to the rent. Not that Sherlock minded... he was a difficult tenant and he knew it. But she wouldn't trade him, not him or his little army fellow. The boys paid their rent well, and her life was never boring. If there weren't CIA agents in the house, or corpses turning up on the stairs, well... there had been all sorts of interesting noises in the flat above her as of late. She'd taken to lying in bed, giggling and trying to place exactly where they were shagging at the moment. Last night had been the bedroom again. Quieter than usual. John was usually quite vocal. "Here," she said sweetly, stacking Sherlock's requested ingredients into a paper bag. She handed it to him with a kind pat on the shoulder. "I'll put it on the rent, dear." _And perhaps a little padding for good measure_. He had, after all, woken her out of a dead sleep.

Sherlock gave her a quick nod and a peck on the cheek before hurrying out of her flat and back up the stairs into his kitchen. He took everything out and arranged in a line as quietly as he could. Sherlock took a deep breath and grabbed his metal bowl. Alright. He could do this, right? It was easy. Everyone said so. Surely, if someone with an IQ of 80 could do this than he could too!

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><p>John woke feeling bereft. He lay quietly, not moving, not disturbing the sheets, a scowl on his face. It took him several minutes of groggy half-sleep to realize why his body felt so empty... so cold. "Sherlock?" He opened his eyes, grunting, and turned his head. Sherlock was not in bed. John frowned. It had been a very long time since he woke up alone. Due to their vigorous nocturnal activities, and Sherlock's tendency to run himself ragged when he had a case, which was more often than not lately, John had gotten used to his lover sleeping in long after he went to work. Only when Sherlock absolutely had to would he rise before nine or ten in the morning. John flopped over, grabbing at the bedside clock. It was nearly seven. Where the hell could Sherlock be at this time of day on the weekend? He pondered a moment, and growled. <em>Lestrade<em>. Lestrade had called, and Sherlock didn't wake him. John snorted angrily, swinging his legs out of bed, tossing off the blankets. Damn Sherlock! John waited all bloody week to go frolicking about on the hunt with him! The least he could do was...

John paused in the doorway to the bedroom, his feet poised to take him to the loo. He sniffed. Something was burning. His first inclination was to think it was Mrs. Hudson, overcooking her eggs again, but.. There was a clatter in the kitchen, and John blinked. "Sherlock?" He padded naked out to the sitting room, eyes wide, mouth agape. He stopped short, clenching and unclenching his fists in his great effort not to burst out laughing.

There he stood. Sherlock Holmes. The world's greatest living mind. The world's only consulting detective. The world's most intelligent human being.

Nope. The fist-clenching wasn't going to do it. John began to giggle, completely forgetting his own state of undress as he laughed, huge peals shaking his entire body. Sherlock stood before him, face chagrined, shoulders hunched in defeat. There was flour in his hair. On his pyjamas. On his robe. John's stomach shook as he managed to gasp out, "Sherlock, what the HELL are you doing?"

Sherlock stiffened indignantly. John was laughing at him! Sherlock did not like to be laughed at. Not at all. 'Shut up!' He snapped, his cheeks flushed in humiliation. This was not at all what he had planned. 'What are you doing up, anyway?' He muttered trying to mask his embarrassment with anger. Sherlock flung the whisk down on the table and folded his arms, very much the image of a petulant child who wasn't getting his way.

John stepped forward, still stifling the giggles, and he peered at the table. Half empty bags of baking ingredients were everywhere. Butter was smeared on the tabletop. A bowl of cream that had been whipped until nearly dead sat precariously on the edge of the cabinet behind them, and a large bottle of maple syrup had spilt on one of the chairs. John picked it up, capped it, and placed it gingerly on the table. He lifted an eyebrow at the lumpy batter in the bowl that Sherlock was whisking only moments before. On the stovetop, a skillet was smoking. He removed it, placing it in the kitchen sink, and he turned a dancing eye on his lover. "Sherlock?" John said with a playful grin. "I asked what you were doing."

Sherlock turned away from John, half tempted to take a hand full of the whipped cream and fling it at him. He resisted for the moment. 'I was cooking.' He said lamely, his eyes shifting about guiltily. 'Just... making... breakfast.' Sherlock's voice got quieter and quieter with every word he spoke and he fidgeted with the hem of his now dirty dressing gown.

John tilted his head, the smile spreading wider as he shuffled closer to him, trying to catch those silver eyes. "Breakfast?" he repeated. Sherlock's frustration was plain. John slid his arms around his waist, playing with the silken folds of the robe. "For me?"

Sherlock nodded, hanging his head, his cheeks a violent shade of pink. 'Don't laugh.' He pouted, his arms limp at his sides. Sherlock felt John's body, warm against his and sighed dejectedly. This morning had not gone at all how he'd planned it.

"I'm not laughing." John reached up to graze his nose against Sherlock's collarbone, and he pressed a swift kiss on his neck. "All right, I was," he admitted. "But it's thoughtful, Sherlock. You're quite getting the hang of this _lark_, aren't you?" John pulled back, his grey eyes bright with amusement. "Want some help, then?

Sherlock looked back at his lover and frowned a little. 'I don't n...' he stopped and fought back the snarky comment, 'yes.' He chewed his lips and touched the back of his neck. Sherlock did need help.

"Right then." John pulled away, turning in a circle, surveying the damage. "Bloody hell." Sherlock had made a royal mess. He shrugged, hands on his hips, and he took a deep breath. "All right, then, Sherlock. Just... toss whatever is in that bowl in the rubbish." He pointed to the batter. "I'll start cleaning up the dishes, and once the kitchen is clean, we'll make a proper breakfast." John turned on his heel, and bent down to the cabinet underneath the kitchen sink to retrieve the apron he kept below. He didn't wear it often... Sherlock took the mick out of him every time he did. But he would be damned if he was going to clean up this kitchen without it. There was flour and syrup everywhere. John looked in the sink as he tied the strings behind him. "Strawberries? In the sink? Really?" He loved strawberries. But not in his kitchen sink. He sighed, giving them a quick rinse and piling them in the nearest empty bowl.

Sherlock kept snatching furtive glances at John dressed in nothing but an apron. It was unreasonably sexy. He tried to keep his mind on cleaning up but... that tight arse kept moving about, the muscles in his back rippled as he moved about. It was so distracting. Sherlock swallowed thickly and picked up the bowl of cream defensively, as if that would protect him from the stirring he could feel. 'John... aren't you...' Sherlock's eyes darted about, looking anywhere but John, 'cold?

John looked up from the dishes, lifting an eyebrow. "Cold? Cold, no, why..?" He faltered, glancing back at Sherlock. John's face flushed. Sherlock was standing next to the table, clutching the bowl of whipped cream with white knuckled hands, his eyes averted, his stance nervous, on edge. John recognized it. He smiled, slowly beginning to comprehend the reason for Sherlock's blatant arousal. John looked down at himself. He was washing dishes, bending over their kitchen sink, in nothing but a white cotton apron and his bare arse. And it was turning Sherlock on. John laughed again, his hip jutting out as he faced his lover. _This could be fun. _"No, not cold at all. Just fine, actually. Feel a nice draft." He turned again, continuing his work, but now... he thrust his backside out just a bit more, legs spread a little wider as he scrubbed the dishes from last night, and the ones Sherlock had already dirtied that morning.

Sherlock shifted about, turning around and continuing to hold the bowl like a shield. Damn it, John was teasing him. It wasn't fair. 'A nice draft.' he muttered, glancing over his shoulder at John's arse sticking out so temptingly. Sherlock groaned and set the whipped cream down with a thunk. 'John, put some clothes on.' He was going to make breakfast, damn it all! And then maybe after... _may... after..._ Sherlock just stared, his mouth gaping open slightly as John wiggled his backside saucily.

"Why would I want to do that?" John flicked a towel over his left shoulder, hands busy scrubbing, body busy moving in sensual rhythms from sink to counter top as he stacked the wet dishes. He threw a smirk at his flat mate. "I'm quite comfortable, thanks. Hand me the whisk, Sherlock? Damn, you made a bloody mess. One of these days, you'll have to take time from your busy schedule to let me teach you how to make a proper brekkie without destroying half the kitchen." John shook his head, grinning to himself. "You can solve a murder in twenty seconds flat, but you can't follow a recipe. Brilliant my arse."

That was it. Sherlock's ego had been bruised one too many times this morning. Without even thinking he grabbed the bowl of whipped cream off the table, stomped over to John, tapped his shoulder, and as soon as he looked questioningly up at him, Sherlock dumped the entire bowl on him. 'I could follow the recipe if it wasn't _wrong!_' He snapped, glaring at his startled, cream covered lover. Sherlock deposited the bowl in the sink and smirked at John.

John sputtered. He stood stock still for several moments, glaring up at Sherlock, gigantic globs of over whipped cream dribbling down his sandy hair, his neck, trickling down his forehead into his eyes. He brushed it aside, looking down at himself. His apron was splattered with it. His chest and back were smeared with it. And it was dripping onto his somewhat clean linoleum floors. John glanced about swiftly, spotting the bowl of lumpy batter which Sherlock had still not tossed in the rubbish like he'd asked him to_. Damned Sherlock_. "All right then," John chirped, grabbing it. He brandished the bowl, watching with morbid delight as Sherlock's beautiful eyes widened in horror. "You know," he purred, advancing on his lover. Sherlock retreated slowly until his back met with the kitchen counter, his eyes darting wildly. "The recipe isn't wrong, Sherlock, YOU are wrong. YOU got it wrong." John dipped one hand into the thick mess, and he brought it out again, coated and sticky. He flicked his fingers at his lover, a spray of batter raining on his pyjamas and dressing gown. "Admit it. You. Can't. Cook."

Sherlock almost gasped in indignation as John flicked the greyish, incredibly lump waffle batter at him. 'I can cook!' He said stubbornly, scanning the area for more ammunition. Ah! There! With a sudden burst, Sherlock twisted around and grabbed a plastic container of blueberries and strawberries. With an evil glint in his eyes he shot an arm out, snatching John by the apron and drawing him close before smashing a very plump strawberry on his forehead. Sherlock snickered. 'I can cook. It's just a matter of time and experience.' He stuck his tongue out.

That was it. The entire bowl of batter upended on Sherlock's head, and John left it there, sitting atop the curls upside down. He patted it smartly for good measure. _Oh_. It was wonderful the way Sherlock's face froze in utter fury and disbelief, the way the batter hung to his dark locks. John snorted. "What's wrong, Sherlock? Can't take a little of your own medicine?" He sauntered back to the sink, chin high, and began to rinse his hands off. _Fuck_. He was covered in whipped cream and batter, and now had strawberry juice trickling down his scalp.

'Oh no you don't.' Sherlock breathed dangerously, taking the bowl off his head and setting it gently down on the counter beside him. He saw a tin labelled powdered sugar and snatched at it. In a matter of seconds he was behind John, grabbing him around his waist and lifting him up so he was sitting on the edge of the sink. 'You're going to regret saying that.' He hissed, opening the tin and flinging the contents on John's chest, neck, and face. Sherlock wasn't about to lose in this game. He wasn't going to go easy on John, no matter what.

John coughed, twisting in Sherlock's arms to reach for the bag of flour. He couldn't work out whether or not he wanted to giggle or be extremely angry, but either way, the reaction was the same. "GEROFF!" he shouted, shoving his bare feet against Sherlock's chest and pushing hard. Sherlock staggered back, and John was on the ground again in an instant, ripping the bag open and grabbing huge handfuls of flour, flinging them at his lover. Sherlock ducked and dodged, trying to cover his battered head, but John chased him, around the table, tackling him from behind and dragging him to the floor. John muscled him down, turning the flour bag to pour languidly over his face and neck, and… _yes._ John was giggling.

Sherlock grabbed John's neck and pulled him into a ferocious kiss, mashing his lips against John's, forcing his tongue inside the hot mouth before pushing him down and leaping up to grab the bottle of maple syrup and discarded container of berries. As John tried to regain his balance, Sherlock pressed a foot to his chest and knocked him back onto the floor. 'Stay there.' He flashed John a feral smile before straddling his stomach. With one hand he captured John's wrists while the other uncapped the bottle to the maple syrup. 'You're in for it now.'

John struggled against Sherlock's iron grip, but it was no use. Once he allowed himself to be here, in this position, with Sherlock atop him, John knew there was no point in fighting it. Not only did Sherlock have the upper hand, he was a hell of a lot stronger than he looked, and if he cared to admit it, John never could really give it his all anyway. He writhed on the floor, all too aware that the searing kiss they'd just shared had roused his body, and he was beginning to grow hard beneath his apron. Sherlock was sitting on top of him, and there was syrup in his hand, and... _ohhhh_... John gasped, his thighs falling apart as the sticky sugar drizzled lazily over his chest... his nipples.

Sherlock had a thumb over the bottle, controlling the stream of maple syrup, slowly making little designs on John's bare chest. Fuck. John looked so hot covered in whipped cream, maple syrup, powdered sugar, and strawberries. 'See?' He said setting the bottle down gently. 'I am good at making food. You look positively edible, John.' He leaned down and kissed John's slack lips. 'And I think that's what I'll have for breakfast. I think I'll. Eat. You.' Sherlock's tongue flicked out and lapped up some of the whipped cream on John's jawline. He felt his lover stiffen and wriggle slightly. _This morning might not be such a waste after all... _Sherlock's tongue traced a little line down from John's jaw to his neck, to his collar bone. A feeling of superior smugness settled in his chest. This was going to be so much fun.

John felt the groan building. He tried his best not to let it out. He really did. But it came anyway, bellowing out of his deepest core, loud and pleading in the cool morning air. He arched up, rubbing his erection against Sherlock's thigh as he tossed his head, whimpering. Sherlock's tongue was dancing lower, just the tip dragging along the threads of syrup until it reached a nipple. John hissed, moaning loudly as he began to suck, teeth rolling it about, Sherlock's lips warm and pliant on his chest. "Sherlooooock... fuck..." John's mind was full of the sensations of the night before, and he found his hands clenching at the dressing gown, pushing at it, trying to slide it off of wiry shoulders. He was hard. _Fuck, _he was hard. His legs spread a little wider, and he felt Sherlock smile against his flesh. He knew his John. John wanted to get fucked. He grinned a little in return, tangling his fingers in Sherlock's thick, disgusting hair.

The door to the flat swung open.

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><p>Lestrade opened the door to Sherlock and John's flat. Mrs Hudson said the two of them would be up by now. He'd been a little curious as to why she'd mentioned that they should both be decent by now, too, but he just shrugged it off. Of course they'd both be decent. Lestrade had never seen Sherlock in anything less than a full suit of clothing and John, well John was a modest bloke. Greg doubted he was the type to walk around in his knickers, especially not with Sherlock about. At least that's what he thought.<p>

The detective inspector's eyes nearly popped out of his head as he walked into the flat and spotted the two men on the floor. He just stared at them for long moments. Sherlock's head lifted and he gazed at Greg in that same bored expression he always wore. And John... John's face was bright pink as he looked at him. What the HELL was going on? 'Sorry!' Lestrade blurted out, colour flooding his cheeks as turned on his heel and walked quickly out of the flat. What had he just seen? Sherlock on top of John. Both of them covered in food. John dressed in nothing but a white apron. Greg could have sworn that Sherlock had been in the process of licking what looked like maple syrup off John's bare chest. And John's... there was a tell-tale tenting in the apron John was wearing. Greg's ears burned and he stopped for breath at the bottom of the stairs. He shook his head, trying to dislodge the image from his brain. Never in all his life would he EVER have expected to walk in on someone doing that let alone that someone being Sherlock and the person he was doing it to being JOHN. 'Oh my god.' He couldn't... this was just too much.

"Hello, Inspector!" Mrs Hudson sang out to him as she flounced by the staircase, wrapping herself in a purple woolen jacket and a scarf. "That didn't take very long, were they still in bed?" She paused with her hand on the door knob.

Greg choked and whirled around. 'No! Uh, noooo. They were definitely not in bed. Noo.' He spluttered. Did Mrs Hudson know what the two of them were getting on up there? Was that why she'd said that comment about them being decent? 'I, ahh, they were busy.' Greg couldn't look Mrs Hudson in the eye. He knew that if he did he would blush all over again. 'I'll... I'll just come back again. Or call. Yes. I'll just send Sherlock a text before I drop by next time. 'If only he'd done that sooner... Greg gulped and glanced at the door. 'I should get going now. No point in me staying while they're sha... busy.' Greg would never speak of this to another living soul as long as he lived. And even if he did, who was really going to believe that Sherlock was buggering his flatmate? No one, that's who.

Mrs. Hudson glanced up the stairs. A low, guttural groan drifted down, and there was scuffling. She tittered, beaming at the inspector with innocent eyes. "They're at it again, I see. In the kitchen by the sound of it..." She opened the front door, giving him a little wave. "You might want to come back this afternoon. They should be finished by then!" She bustled down the walk, leaving him behind in the doorway.

Greg stared at her incredulously. That woman was the scariest person Gregory Lestrade had ever met in his entire life. 'Yes, ah, I'll do that...' He muttered, ducking his head. 'I'll see you later, then.' Without a look back he hurried to the door and out of the building, still not quite believing what he'd just witnessed.

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><p>John lay on his back, gaping up at the still open door of their flat, at the space where Greg Lestrade had just disappeared. He could feel his cheeks burning, hot and crimson, and slowly, he turned his eyes up to Sherlock. His lover was gazing down at him, eyes bright, lips parted and panting softly. John caught his breath. <em>He was beautiful<em>. Even crusted with waffle batter and flour... Sherlock was the prettiest thing he'd ever seen in his life. "Come here," he husked, reaching up to grab him by the neck, and John hauled him down, snarling as he pressed his mouth to those lips, biting, sucking, devouring. _Fuck. Greg had just seen them._ And John needed Sherlock, needed him fucking NOW. He tried desperately to infuse the kiss with that need, to press upon his young lover exactly what he wanted. John was so hard he thought he might pass out from the lack of blood flow to his brain. It was all in his cock, and his cock was seeking Sherlock's. He groaned into his mouth.

Something had sparked in Sherlock's brain the moment Lestrade walked in the door and subsequently walked right out after seeing the two of them on the floor. The detective could tell his lover had felt it, too. The excitement. Sherlock moaned into John's mouth. He leaned forward, resting all his weight on his knees, lifting up his backside and ripping the apron from John's waist. 'Oh fuck.' He whispered against John's lips. Kneeling up, he shifted until he was sitting in between John's legs. He heard John whimper above him and smirked. 'You want it, don't you?' Sherlock grabbed a strawberry and rolled it around in his hand. 'Don't you, John?'

"Oh... fuck yes," he whispered back, wrapping his legs tightly around Sherlock's waist and yanking him forward to grind those bony hips against his arse. John keened, wailing loudly, his dick jumping at the contact, and he began to squirm, seeking deeper contact, seeking Sherlock's cock. "Yes, I want it, please, give it to me, Sherlock!" he cried, hands snatching at his clothes, trying helplessly to tear them from his body. He needed to get fucked. Oh, hell yes, John needed to get plowed hard.

Sherlock bit into the strawberry and spat out the hull. John was so needy, begging to get fucked. Sherlock bucked his hips into John's willing arse, loving the sharp gasp it caused. He continued to grind into John at a slow maddening pace. Leaning forward, Sherlock pressed his lips against John's, his tongue pushing the strawberry into that hungry mouth. 'Let's fuck.' He whispered and ripped off his trousers. Sherlock looked around for something he could use, something that would work for a lubricant. His eyes fell upon the cooking oil Mrs Hudson had given him earlier and sat up to grab it. _This should work just fine, right?_ The sleuth looked down at his besotted lover and showed him the thin bottle. 'You ready?'

John couldn't reply. He was too busy spilling out Sherlock's name, and a long stream of whimpers mixed with obscenities as he frantically undulated on the floor. He needed, he needed, he needed NOW. John let himself go limp as he watched Sherlock unscrew the bottle, and he licked his lips, finding the words. '"Sh...Sherlock?"

Sherlock paused a moment to glance at John. 'Yes?' He purred sitting back on his haunches.

John squirmed again, not caring one whit that he sounded pathetic and submissive. He was covered in whipped cream for fucks sake. He needed to get SHAGGED. "Don't... OH, FUCK.." He lost himself again as a fresh wave of need blasted through him, and he was left quivering... almost sobbing. He was a fool, an idiot, a bloody fucking cock whore. John swallowed hard, choking on his own desperation. "Please... just do it. Don't bother.. with_.. Fuck fuck_.. Just fuck me, Sherlock, hard, now, please... oh.. OH!" John arched, offering his arse up, hoping his lover understood. Sherlock was so good to him; John knew he liked to prep him before a shag. But right now all he needed was that big dick, splitting him open. He was out of words. They fled him. He only had his body, and he used it as best he could. John thrust up against him, arms lying flat on the floor above his head, fists clenching.

Sherlock moaned and shuddered. 'Ar... are you sure?' He gasped, understanding what John meant. Sherlock lifted John's legs until they rested on his shoulders. He wanted this badly; his cock was already rock hard and glistening at the tip. Sherlock looked at John spread before him, his arms above his head, his lips parted, covered in whipped cream and maple syrup. Fuck, he looked hot. Sherlock's hands slid under the small of his back, lifting his arse just a little. The detective looked his lover in the eyes and pressed the tip of his weeping cock to rest against the rosy pucker.

"YESSSS!" John shouted, arms shooting out to grasp onto Sherlock's shoulders. His thighs flexed and his body resisted, clenching down tightly on Sherlock's long shaft, but John breathed deeply, forcing himself to relax. "Ooooooh," he groaned, wriggling down fast, seating Sherlock as deep as he could go. John was gasping, staring down at them, impossibly turned on by the sight of a huge cock buried deep inside of his arse. His grey eyes flickered up to meet Sherlock's, and they grinned together. John darted forward to lick at his lips, nipping at them fast, and he collapsed back on the ground, limp. "Do it," he said hoarsely, wrapping one hand at the base of his own erection. He began to stroke it slowly, never leaving his lover's gaze. "Do it. Make it hard, make it hurt."

Sherlock let out a load groan as John's words fell from those devilish lips. _Fuck._ Without a second thought, without another question, Sherlock began to slam into John, revelling in the tightness, the way he felt. 'John!' He moaned, rocking harder and harder. John's entire body was moving with his, pushing back with every thrust of Sherlock's cock. The loud cries and shrieks of pleasure erupting from his lover was more than enough to make Sherlock's mind go blank. Faster and faster Sherlock pounded into John, ramming his prostate, his hands making marks on John's hips. 'Fuck! John! You're so tight. So hot. Ohhhhh fffuuucccccckkkk!'

"Nnnnn FUCK YEAH, Sherlock! Give it to me! SHIT!" John was screaming, and fuck, he was probably waking the whole bloody neighborhood. For all he knew, Lestrade was still down there... listening... that thought brought with it a new spike of exhibitionistic arousal, and he screamed once more, bucking wildly with every piston of Sherlock's hips. "FUCK! YESS! Harder, Sherlock! Make me beg! Make me scream! FUCK ME HARD!" John's body rolled and writhed, his legs wrapping around his chest to his back now, and he used the muscle in those strong thighs to pull Sherlock ever deeper. "Come on! You can't fucking cook, at least give me a hot fuck! YESSSS!" John threw his head back, gaping and holding his breath. Oh_... Oh HELL yes_. He could feel it all. Sherlock's cock was thick, veined and throbbing inside of him. It was perfect and long and searing hot. Every time it canted forward, John felt his ring of muscle stretch to accommodate it, like greeting an old friend, and once inside, it tortured the walls of his body with quick, agonizing drags along the spongy flesh. His prostate was getting pounded, slammed hard, and John let out a strangled laugh. This... he would never tire of this.

When the orgasm overtook him, he surrendered fully, tears rolling down his face. His screech was unrestrained... wild... primal.

Sherlock's thrusts became even harder and faster as John shouted at him, as John begged him, as John screamed that he couldn't fucking cook. That still irked Sherlock. He threw his head back and let out his own cry of pleasure as John tightened around him, as John screamed out in pleasure, cumming in thick streams. Sherlock laughed a mad laugh and pulled out of John. Grasping John's shoulders he shoved him down and pushed his cock into the shorter man's face. 'Suck it.' He said giving a little nod, his eyes glinting with perverse pleasure. 'Now.'

John didn't need to be told twice. He twisted up, mouth open wide, and he swallowed him whole, still shaking and sobbing from the force of his climax. His moans and whimpers were muffled as Sherlock began to rock against his teeth and tongue forcefully, fucking his mouth, quicker and quicker, harder, until John was doing nothing but keeping his lips as wide as possible while Sherlock used and abused his mouth. His hands grasped as Sherlock's arse, needing more, silently pleading for him to cum hard, shoot down his throat. _Fuck_. John had only a moment to contemplate the fact that he'd sucked Sherlock off the night before, drank his cum like fucking mint tea, and now, here he was again, begging for more.

Sherlock felt the orgasm rise up, felt himself beginning to cum. He slammed into John's mouth as hard as he could, listening to John's muffled moans. _Fuck._ Sherlock loved this so much. 'John, don't you dare let a single drop leak.' He panted, grabbing John's head and forcing him to stay in that position as the last of Sherlock's cum spurted out into his willing mouth. 'Not a fucking drop.' Sherlock gazed down at his lover and smirked. John was so eager for his cock, loved it when Sherlock fucked his mouth just as much as when he fucked his arse. Really, it surprised Sherlock to find out how much of a cock whore John was deep down. He never would have expected it. Sherlock stroked John's hair lovingly as John finally pulled away from him, gasping for breath.

He was dizzy. He let himself fall back, tongue still searching the corners of his mouth for the last vestiges of Sherlock's seed on his swollen lips. "M..more..." _Fuck_. Fuck, he couldn't stop blabbering. John observed himself as from a great distance, moaning and whimpering on the kitchen floor, his chest rising and falling, his hands grappling at Sherlock's naked body. "Not enough.. never enough... more..." He arched up, trying to steal a kiss. He was so debauched. Thoroughly fucked. Shagged hard. And he was sobbing, "More, more, more, Sherlock... fuck.. I... I can't.." He couldn't control himself. He had lost every bit of control left in him. Sherlock owned it all. He was a pleading, whining, aching thing, and he loved it, fucking loved it.

Sherlock pulled John close and kissed him, his tongue searching inside John's mouth, meeting John's tongue. 'You want more?' Sherlock asked, breathing hard, his hands working their way down John's messy body, pulling at his nipples, digging his nails into the tanned flesh. Sherlock felt his lover arch into him and he rubbed John's arse in his hands, fingering the entrance that he'd just fucked only moments ago. John was whimpering and begging for more and more. Sherlock pushed him down on the ground and licked his lips before lowering his head and devouring every bit of John's whipped cream covered skin, lapping it up, tasting the sticky sweetness of maple syrup, whipped cream and semen. 'Shiiit, John, you taste so fucking good. I could eat you every day.' He bit one of John's rosy nipples then attacking the other. 'So fucking good.'

John sucked in all of the air in the room at once. Sherlock was biting his nipples... so hard... too hard. It should hurt. It DID hurt. But... he was almost hyperventilating from the agonizing pain and pleasure of it, and his cock was at attention again. _Damn it_. He was a medical man. He knew this shouldn't happen again so quickly, he knew that his body should have been sated. Hell, after the orgasm he just had, he shouldn't need to fuck again for a long while. But he was hard just the same, and the state he was in, shit, he didn't much care why. He began to snarl and snap at his lover's hair, tickling his face as Sherlock devoured him, inch by inch. "More," he growled, and it seemed the only word in his vocabulary at the moment. His arse hole twitched, flexed, sore and ready for another go. "More. More. MORE. MORE!"

Sherlock was ecstatic. It wasn't often that John wanted two fucks in a row, especially not so early in the morning. With a fluid movement Sherlock captured John's ankles in his hands and pushed up as far as they could go. 'Hold on to these.' He commanded. 'Don't let go or I'll punish you.'

John obeyed, unquestioning, grabbing onto his ankles tightly and letting out a throaty, begging noise. Fuck yes. _Hell _yes. _FUCK YES_. He looked down at himself, at the precarious and exposed position he was in, and he began to shudder, his cock weeping. This was good, fucking good... He blinked up at Sherlock from beneath heavy eyelids, the lust so thick he could taste it in the oxygen. He opened his mouth to utter one last word before he lost himself again. Keeping those glassy, unearthly eyes, John bit out, "MORE." And then his chin fell onto his chest, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he submitted to Sherlock's.. Every. Single. Whim.

Sherlock surveyed John, making sure that the man was doing exactly as he had been told. Once Sherlock was satisfied, he slapped John's arse, watching him squirm and yelp in surprise. 'Good boy.' He murmured, tracing a finger up John's left thigh. 'Now keep it there. Don't move it or you'll really be screaming.' Sherlock smiled as John whimpered and nodded submissively. 'You want another go, well, I suppose we'll just have to give you one.' Sherlock lazily plucked up another strawberry and licked it. Settling down on his stomach he propped his head up on an elbow and traced the twitching hole with the berry, listening to John's gasps of surprise and pleasure. 'You like berries, don't you, John?' Sherlock asked innocently.

John groaned, biting his lip, hard... very hard. He felt the dryness there crack, tasted his own blood. He had no more words, but simply nodded with great rasping breaths, choking, feeling his entire body hum with the vibration of his racing heart. His cock throbbed. His hole, stretched and relaxed already, tingled with the cool of the berry. He looked up at Sherlock with pleading eyes.

Sherlock's cock jumped at the sight of John's hunger. _Oh fuck._ He pressed the berry inside John until just the green top was peeking out, relishing the moans it elicited. 'Oh John, you're so naughty. So bad.' He stood up and looked at John, feeling his heart thudding in his chest. 'We're really going to have to do something to curb this, aren't we?' Sherlock roughly toed John's arse when he didn't answer. 'Aren't we?'

Again... he nodded vehemently, his throat completely unable to form anything but groans and stifled cries. Sherlock... _fuck, fuck_ he was cruel, he was wonderful, he was John's, all John's. The doctor gave a massive judder, his toes curling on the cold floor, and he began to shake with need. He couldn't take much more teasing... He needed to be shoved down, fucked again, _oooh and smacked with the back of Sherlock's hand again, yes, yes, oh John liked that so very much_. He moaned through clenched teeth, every muscle strained and standing out against sun bronzed skin.

Sherlock smiled and knelt down again, gently caressing John's legs. 'You're being so submissive. You want me, don't you? You want my cock in you, pounding you, turning you into a slutty little whore. Isn't that right?' Sherlock flicked John's erection sharply, a jolt of pleasure running through him as he heard John whimper. He sat back and stared for a minute before slowly pulling the strawberry out and pressing it to John's lips. 'Go on, you like berries. Eat it.' He slapped John's arse sharply.

John's lips opened slowly, his fingers digging into his ankles still, his eyes wide and cloudy as he let Sherlock press the berry into his mouth. He whimpered, holding it against his tongue, pressing the juicy flesh of the fruit against the roof of his mouth. He needed MORE. He lifted his legs impossibly higher, wider... _Sherlock was right. He was a slut._ But only for Sherlock, only for that cock, only for this one man... and John was perfectly happy to be a slutty whore for him. He wriggled impatiently, lips trembling.

Sherlock slapped John again and then without any warning, pushed inside him, slamming into him for the second time that morning. 'FUCK!' He took a deep breath and pulled out until the head of his cock was just barely inside John before slamming back again. This action was repeated several times. Sherlock would inch out slowly, agonizingly before thrusting back in with a vengeance, all the while gasping and moaning. This was too good. Too fucking good.

Distantly, John wondered what the hell that noise was. It was high pitched and irritating... distracting him from the heaven and hell that was Sherlock's massive cock plowing him. It was loud, and rose and fell in great peals, and... oh hell. _It was him_. It was John. John was making the screeching, alien noise. It ripped from his lungs, echoing off the walls of their flat, settling in their ears, and _damn_ if it did not make Sherlock pump him even faster! John howled, over and over, and wondered how he'd ever gotten along without being fucked on his back with his arse in the air and his ankles held by his own two hands. This was ecstasy. This was sublime. This was... "MORE! MORE MORE MOREMOREMOREMOREMORE!" John suddenly found his voice again and screamed the mantra to the ceiling as he threw his head back and let his best friend and lover demolish his arse, mercilessly, ruthlessly, painfully. John reveled and rolled in it. He loved the pain. He loved the humiliation. He loved Sherlock. "FINISH ME!" he begged at the top of his lungs. _One more thrust_. Just one more. One more and he would topple over the edge of oblivion.

Sherlock slapped John's arse again. 'Don't. Give. Me. Orders.' He hissed, leaning in and kissing one of John's ankles, biting at the soft flesh of his foot. With a moan he pulled nearly all the way out of John, waiting just long enough for John to whine and writhe piteously before giving him one last slam. They came together this time, John screaming raggedly, Sherlock letting out a guttural moan. It was too much. Too much pleasure. Sherlock slumped backwards and sat on his heels, gasping for breath. He'd just fucked John twice in less than an hour. This had to be a record for them. Shit. It wasn't even 9 o'clock yet.

John lay on his back, shaking. His ankles were still high in the air. He couldn't move. After several moments of panting and gasping, he slowly lowered his legs, flushing with pleasure at the immediate wave of soreness from their rabid coupling. His eyes fluttered shut, and he held very still, listening to the sounds of traffic and the city as it woke.

Sherlock crawled over to where John lay, and looked down at him a little worriedly. 'Okay?' He asked quietly. His eyes brimming with unasked questions. _Are you okay? Does it hurt? Was I too rough?_ He traced a finger down John's abdomen, still gazing steadily into his lover's face.

John waited a few seconds before replying. "Give me an hour and I could go again," he whispered. He laughed after, but he meant it. He couldn't get enough of Sherlock. He doubted he ever would. John raised his eyes, and smiled gently at the younger man. He inclined his head to lean on Sherlock's. "Poor Greg."

'Poor Greg?' Sherlock snorted. 'He shouldn't have barged into our flat so damn early.' With a grunt Sherlock got to his feet and looked down at himself, naked but for the food stained shirt that hung from his shoulders. 'Shower?' He asked, bending down and holding a hand out to help John up.

John nodded, taking Sherlock's hand and hissing as he stood. "Want to go get some breakfast after?"

Sherlock smiled. 'Yes, that sounds nice.' Without warning he scooped up John, carrying him princess style out of the kitchen. 'Shush!' He admonished as John kicked and protested loudly. 'You just got it twice in the arse with no preparation. I'm going to carry you and you're going to shut the hell up and let me.'  
>John mumbled complaints under his breath, but... the smell of Sherlock's hair beneath all that dried batter invaded his senses, mingling with semen, sweat, and the fresh scent of their bed linens. It was rather intoxicating. He stopped struggling at last, leaning his head into Sherlock's neck, and he closed his eyes.<br>Sherlock smiled and carried John to the loo, gently placing him down in the shower. 'Let me do all the work.' He whispered, kissing John's neck lovingly. 'Then let's take a nap. We can eat after we wake up.'

John nodded, half asleep. He could see the entire weekend before his eyes already. Naps. Quiet meals. Shagging. Police work. He yawned, stretching and popping his joints. This was it. This was his life now. Sherlock ran the shower, attacking the task with passion... like he did John. John blushed deeply. He was sore. He was tired. He was happy.

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><p>If you love a vocal John just as much as we do, then you should barrage us with reviews, because they make John scream even louder. *wink wink*<p>

Seriously, Calabash is the best John anybody could ever ask for. I WUV YOU, CALABASH!


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